


When Only Hope Remains

by klassmartin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Ghosts, Season 6 Alternate Ending, if anyone can fix this its kira, kira returns because fuck you jeff davis, lydia martin's worst nightmare, though that is up for debate, well probably or i've ruined the rest of the season for myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 13:54:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9444110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klassmartin/pseuds/klassmartin
Summary: Lydia is left alone with only her ghosts to keep her company, trying to find a way to bring back the people that have been stolen from her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I can't decide if this is how I want the season to go because of Kira, or if I don't want it to get to the point that Lydia is left alone for so long. Buuuuuuuut here it is, because I couldn't stop thinking about it. I apologise for it not being my best.

There's a knock at the door and she jumps nearly two foot off the ground.

“What the…” Lydia stares at the figure in the doorway, feeling sick to her stomach at the sight. “Allison? What the hell are you doing here?”

The girl in question slips around her, tossing her jacket at the sofa and toeing off her boots in one move. “I know you weren't expecting me, but I thought I could help.”

“...me make bread?” Lydia questions as she follows her into the kitchen.

Allison gives her an odd look. “Sure. Bread. Why are you making bread? Of all the things to be doing right now.”

Lydia has no answer, so she ignores her.

Making herself busy, Lydia returns to measuring out her ingredients, but not without continuously sneaking glances at her. Allison’s hair is tickling her shoulders, a black top clinging to her like a second skin. Her dark eyes are darting around the room, taking in every detail, on constant alert. The familiarity of it makes something warm settle in Lydia’s chest. 

Allison picks up the recipe book, one with aged yellow pages and tiny font. Her grandmother’s notes and additions are recorded in her swirling handwriting in the margins.

“You’re wrong.”

“About what?”

“The recipe clearly states its  _ three _ cups of flour.” 

Lydia peeks at her best friend, perched on the kitchen countertop by the sink. Flicking through the book, the brunette folds over a corner - Lydia winces at the mistreatment - and licks her fingertip to turn the page. Lydia purses her lips. “I remember everything I’ve ever read. It said two.”

Allison rolls her eyes. “You’ll see.”

Lydia pulls a face at her behind her back as she finds the yeast. All she wants is to make some bread, why must she be so unhelpful? Stepping around her, Lydia collects the wooden spoon from the drawer. “If you’re going to be here, the least you can do is help.”

“When you realise I’m correct, I’ll consider it.”

They continue with their activities in silence for a few moments. Allison drops the book to the counter and picks up Lydia’s current reading on the Riemann Hypothesis. “Figured this out yet?”

“Not yet. I've been a little busy.” Lydia keeps mixing; it’s too runny. Lydia snatches up the bag of flour. “...Fine, you win.”

Allison just smirks.

* * *

 

There’s a thin layer of dust coating most of the surfaces. Lydia has always hated dusting, so it becomes the chore she neglects in place of things she classifies as more important.

It’s been twelve days but she’s already got her hours planned out:

  * Wake up.
  * Force down food.
  * Clean the dishes. Wash clothes, bedding.
  * Walk. Look for people, signs of life.
  * Find supplies.
  * Eat. 
  * Prepare. Plan. Learn.
  * Sleep when standing becomes too difficult.



This is her life now, one task after another, waiting for the solution to strike. She just hopes it doesn’t take too long.

* * *

 

Scott is next to appear at her door. He patrols the streets with her, tries to find new ways every day of telling her, “You can do this.”

All it does is break her heart a little more every time.

The sun is peeking out from behind the clouds, though it does little to provide any warmth. Lydia closes the door softly, fingers tracing a knot in the wood, before she turns around. At the end of the path, Scott is leaning against the mailbox. “How many is that now?”

“Sixteen,” Lydia sighs, running a hand through her hair. “All empty.”

“You don't seem that surprised.” Scott falls into step beside her, his jeans brushing her knuckles.

“It’s been nearly three weeks of this. There's only so many empty houses you can visit before you begin to expect it rather than dread it.”

“Three weeks huh.” Scott heaves a deep breath. “Has it really been that long?”

Lydia turns up the next path, letting Scott trail behind her. “It's fine. I'm fine.”

“Are you?” He tugs her to a stop with a gentle hand around her wrist, but she keeps her gaze pointed firmly at the concrete. 

“Scott, I’m…” There’s a tension in the air that makes her muscles feel like bone and her bones feel like mush. Against her better judgement, Lydia looks up and gets trapped in the scrutiny that is Scott McCall’s all-seeing gaze. “I’m fine.”

She doesn’t know why she bothers, because he just wraps her in his arms, holding her close in the middle of a stolen stranger’s pathway in the middle of a stolen town. “No, you’re not.”

“No,” she whimpers into his shoulder, “No, I’m not.”

* * *

 

“I hear he dies in the end.”

Lydia slaps her thigh, the dinner plate in her lap wobbling with the force. “Don’t spoil it, Malia.”

“Oh please.” Malia picks at the dark nail varnish Lydia faintly remembers applying nearly seven weeks ago. “I know for a fact you’ve seen this movie at least four times with -”

“I still would rather you didn’t spoil it.” 

Malia picks up a handful of popcorn and throws it in the air. Lydia suspects she misses them all deliberately.

They’ve been sat in front of the television for thirty seven minutes when Malia huffs loudly and falls dramatically back into the sofa. “This is so fucking boring.”

Lydia remains focused on the screen. “This is my thing. We did your thing already. My turn.”

“My thing?” Malia scoffs. “Painting my nails is not ‘my thing’.”

“You may not have wanted to do it, but you needed to do it. Those claws were in serious need of a manicure.”

“My claws don’t need to look pretty. They need to be ready to take down anyone in the way.”

Lydia pauses the movie and twists in her seat, placing her hands over Malia’s fidgeting ones. “You don’t need to be on the defensive all the time. We’re about as safe as we’re gonna get for supernatural creatures and chances are, no one is coming after us. Relax and enjoy yourself.”

Malia seems doubtful for a long time, an eyebrow hitched, until eventually she wiggles her shoulders and puts in a visible amount of effort to release the tension in her muscles. “I can relax, but I definitely cannot enjoy myself watching this.” Malia snatches up the remote. “What about something a bit more gorey?”

* * *

It’s been sixty seven days. Lydia is watching the rain fall outside the window, nose against the glass, tracing the path of droplets as they slide down the window. The clouds are a shade of grey that match her mood, that make her think the sky is pitying her.

“The sky is  _ not  _ pitying you. It’s just raining. Normal, predictable, boring rain.” Allison is leaning against the foot of the bed, throwing a ball of socks between her hands. Lydia's sigh is visible against the glass pane.

“Maybe I can control the weather now. Maybe it’s another shitty side effect of being a banshee.”

Allison huffs. “How does controlling the weather connect to predicting death?”

“People die due to weather changes all the time. Lightning strikes, heavy rainfall, the sun glinting off shiny objects -”

“I get it. I just don’t think you’re capable of controlling the weather.”

Pushing herself back, Lydia slides down until she’s next to her best friend on the floor. She nestles her head into Allison’s shoulder, letting her eyes slip closed as they listen to the rain outside for a while.

“Are you going out today?”

“I have to. Might take the car though.” Lydia straightens up, back cracking, and approaches the board. She stares at the map, hands on her hips, trying to choose her next area. “What about Retterman Street?”

Allison links their arms together and smiles at her. “Sounds great. I’ll grab our coats.”

* * *

 

“It’s nice out today.”

Lydia glances over to Scott. His hands are tucked in his jacket pockets, his posture relaxed even though his uneven jaw is tense; it’s quiet enough that she can hear his teeth grinding. This has become somewhat of a pattern. Lydia walks the chosen quadrant, checking everywhere a person could hide away, and Scott keeps her company, making idle chit chat about anything that comes to mind.

She shrugs, adjusting her hair as the wind blows it into her eyes. The chill is biting at her cheeks but she forgot her scarf and her coat can only do so much. “I suppose. A little windy for my taste.”

His hand is hovering at the small of her back, like he’s capable of protecting her, like he’s real. “What do you wanna do today? We could go to the store, or maybe stop by the school library, oh! When was the last time we checked in at the clinic?”

“Why are we even bothering with all of this?” Malia groans, her feet dragging as she shuffles behind them. She never used to join them on these trips, always claiming she had better things to do, but recently she has begun appearing more, opting to watch her back while Scott protects her flank. 

“Because it’s important,” Lydia bites out. “We need to check for survivors. We need to find something that will help. We need to be  _ ready _ .”

They both stop, but it takes a few steps for her to realise. Looking back, she sees the glint of concern in their eyes. “What?” she bites out.

Malia frowns, folding her arms as she watches her. “Nothing is gonna happen, Lydia.”

“It’s over,” Scott says softly, stepping towards her and stroking her arm. “We don’t need to worry anymore.”

“No,” she spits out, ripping herself free and storming away from them. “ _ You  _ don’t need to worry.”

* * *

 

A few hours have passed and Lydia is lying in her bed, half-heartedly skimming through articles on her laptop for any information on Ghost Riders she might not have. Allison materialises between a blink of Lydia’s eyes, but she doesn’t flinch anymore. Instead, she just rolls her eyes.

“Hey, Ally.”

The brunette is on her side, head leaning against her palm as she stares at Lydia’s profile. “Don’t you think that was a bit harsh?”

“You just don’t like me being a bitch to Scott.”

“I don’t like seeing you like this.” Lydia sighs, her fingers fidgeting at the edge of the blanket wrapped around her. She’s yet to figure out if Allison is actually real, or another figment of her banshee-enhanced imagination like Scott and Malia. There’s something a little different about Allison, something she can’t seem to figure out that sometimes makes her wonder if Allison is supposed to be her version of Caleb. If being able to interact with her dead best friend is meant to be some kind of solace for having everyone else she loves torn away from her one by one.

“Do you… Do you think they’re alive?” Lydia breathes, afraid to put the words out there too loud in case that somehow jinxes it all.

Allison links their hands, stilling the tremors. “Wouldn’t you know that? Sense it?”

“I don’t know. They’re not even on this plane; they’re all stuck in another dimension. Maybe my abilities can’t access it.”

There’s a silence that settles between them while they contemplate her words. “Scott wouldn’t allow it. He’ll protect them.”

She doesn’t know how to tell Allison about the wisp of doubt weaving through her veins. Scott has always been their leader, _her_ leader, guiding them and keep them safe. He has always done everything he can to save them, to keep everyone alive, and until he had disappeared in a cloud of green smoke, that is what he did. But Scott had promised she’d never be in the position that she’s in now. He had sworn it would never come to this, and yet here she is, the last one left in the entire town, with only her ghosts to keep her company.

Scott never meant to break his promise, and she will never blame him for any of this, but that doesn’t mean he can keep them all alive.

Allison’s grip on her hand is tighter, possibly as a direct consequence to the snivelling noises coming from Lydia as self-loathing at the doubt towards her alpha overwhelms her. “You’ll see them again, Lydia. There’s too much left unsaid for this to be the end.”

* * *

 

The house is dark, but she doesn't need the light to know her way around. Her footsteps echo around the empty space, fingers trailing against the faded paint of the hallway walls. There's leaves swirling in the wind at the entryway, the breeze brushing against her calves. Climbing the stairs, she takes her time, letting her mind wander into the past. It's where she spends much of her time these days.

“Did he ever tell you about this?”

Scott appears at her side. He's smiling at her, his eyes as kind and caring as she's always known them to be. His fingers are tracing a gouge in the wall, so deep it has almost cut completely through the plaster. “He did actually.”

“I love him like a brother, but he was really dumb for such a smart kid.”

Lydia laughs, but the tears trying to make their way out make the sound almost a gargle. “He's lucky it was just the skateboard and not his skull.”

Scott threads his fingers in hers, and gives her a soft tug up the stairs. “Come on.”

She follows him, because Lydia would follow him anywhere, and they walk to the hole in the wall created by the Sheriff.

“You can't see it anymore, can you?”

Lydia steps over the threshold, looks around at the bare walls and the creaking floorboards. “No. Not since… I'm sorry, Scott.”

“It's okay. It's not your fault.” The alpha curls an arm around her shoulder and she leans against him, letting his comfort provide the tiniest amount of relief to her anguish. “But I know you, Lydia. You're smart, and you're strong. More than you know. You'll figure this out.”

“Scott,” she whispers. “I don't even know if you're real. I'm trapped in this town, alone, how can I possibly figure any of this out? I was never the one to figure this stuff out. You said it yourself. we need… We need Stiles.”

Scott cups her cheeks, forcing her to look at him. “You are not alone, Lydia. I know it feels it right now, but you have every single one of us with you. You can save us all.”

“I can't do this by myself,” she sobs. “I'm not powerful enough. We already tried and I couldn't do anything to keep you all from being taken. Shit, Scott, I... If I couldn't do it with a pack, how am I supposed to do it without?”

“Lydia…” Scott shakes his head like he knows more than her. “You're not alone. Or have you forgotten that not _all_ of our pack was here when the Wild Hunt came?”

* * *

 

She tries.

For two months, she tries.

Every second she isn’t walking the town, checking for life and collecting supplies, she tries.

Every time, a piece of hope is chipped away.

* * *

 

The house is almost as cold as outside, so she dresses in her thickest pyjamas and huddles into her blankets, pulled right up to her nose. There’s a buzzing in the air and she pulls the sheets higher, trying to block out the noise long enough that she might be able to get some sleep. 

“Lydia, it’s not even eight o’clock and you haven’t eaten since this morning.”

“I’m not hungry.”

The thin strip of light filtering through a crack in the blankets is obstructed, and she looks up to see the deep brown eye of her best friend's ghost. “You can’t give up. People need you.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Lydia -”

“I can’t do anything. I’m not capable of anything. All of you told me I could save people, could save  _ everyone _ , but look at how that turned out.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Lydia throws back the blankets, her eyes alight with fury as she glares at Allison. “Oh please. What would you even know? You weren’t here, Ally, you have no fucking idea! You’re  _ dead _ . You couldn’t possibly know what it was like to watch them all be taken.”

Alison is tearful, but holds it back, a sad smile ghosting across her face. “No, I don’t,” she whispers. “But I do know what it’s like to be without them.”

Her gaze is soft, and it settles her anger into something different, something worse that tunnels deep into her soul. “I can’t do this, Ally. I don’t know how to live without them. Stiles. Scott. Malia, Liam, Mason… Fuck, my own mother got taken right in front of me. _Everyone_ was taken. And I don’t know how to save them. They’re so close and everyone kept telling me that I was the key to the solution, but... I don’t know  _ how _ , Ally. I don't know what to do .”

Ally sits next to her, clutching her hand and stroking her hair. “You do. You just need some help.”

“I know, and I’ve tried, but I don’t know how to get hold of her.”

Ally grins. “About that; I think I’ve found a way…”

* * *

 

It takes two weeks, and Lydia has almost lost all hope in Allison’s promise. She’s walking her usual root around the town, Scott and Malia in their usual positions; him beside her, her behind. They’re reminiscing about junior year, and Lydia is fondly rolling her eyes when something moves in her peripheral and she stumbles to a holt. For a hundred and forty two days, Lydia has been alone, the only person left in Beacon Hills, her ghosts the only company to keep her from going insane. Maybe. Perhaps she is insane, perhaps that’s why she’s seeing such a familiar silhouette running down the -

“Oh my - Kira? Kira!” 

Lydia's heels smack the tarmac as she runs to her. Hope fills her lungs like a balloon, so much that she squeaks with the excitement. Kira is grinning, and she’s trying really hard to convince herself that this is real -  _ this is real, Lydia _ \- because Allison promised and -

They collide in a mess of tears and hugs and Kira’s hair is stuck to her lip and they’re holding each other too hard but she’s so  _ happy  _ to see someone real, someone tangible, someone with blood pumping through their veins and air in their lungs. They cry together for too long, the relief of being with each other again spilling out in peels of laughter. 

“Oh thank fuck you’re here,” Lydia sobs. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Kira pulls back just enough to smoothe the redhead’s hair and wipe at her tear stained cheeks. “I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner. I’m so sorry you’ve had to be here alone.”

“It’s okay because you’re here now, you’re here, wow, you’re - you’re here.”

Kira wipes at her own tears, giving her friend a reassuring smile. “I’m here. And I’m ready. We’re gonna get them back, Lydia. _All_ of them.”

* * *

 

“Do you really think this gonna work?”

“It will. It has to.” Kira is holding her sword like a long-lost child, a hint of a smile twinkling in her eyes. “Wanna go over the plan one more time?”

“Okay.” Lydia releases a deep breath, staring down at their plans and then looking back up to the kitsune. Behind her, smiling proudly back, is Scott, Malia and Allison.

Kira sees her gaze shift, and checks over her shoulder. “Are they still here?”

Lydia grins. “They always are.”

* * *

 

Kira’s sword is embedded into the roots of the Nemeton, the kitsune’s skin quivering with the electricity thrumming through her. The last time Lydia had seen this, Kira had been terrified. Now she looks like a mighty warrior, ready to wield and shape it to do her bidding. There is a confidence in her abilities that makes her back a little straighter, chin raised a little higher, and if not for the severity of the moment, Lydia would tell her how incredibly proud she is with her beginning to master her abilities.

Except she can’t, because the hum of power from the Nemeton is vibrating just beneath her skin, and there’s a desire to scream that comes not from death, but from her drive to fight, _to survive_ , to end this miserable existence and to get her goddamn town back.

“You ready?” Kira calls over the whistle of the wind. Lydia smirks at her.

“Let’s take down some motherfucking cowboys.”

There’s a bolt of lightening so bright it burns her eyes, and the crack of it makes her cover her ears. Kira draws her sword from the Earth and crouches into position. Lydia straightens and takes a step forward, directing all her hatred, all her anger into the glower she sends at the group of Ghost Riders standing before them. Their boots clink, their whips unfurl. A bone deep fear engulfs her but she forces it aside because this is it. The last stand. Either she and Kira save the town, or they die trying.

Kira whispers something that sounds a lot like, “I believe in you,” and it begins.

Channeling everything she has, Lydia screams like never before, directing the sound towards them as Kira charges with her sword. They throw their heart and soul into it, taking down the riders with an alarming speed. They have nothing to lose except each other, an understanding they have already come to that no matter what, they fight until it’s over. Lydia uses her hands to direct the deathly howls at her enemies, delighted to see how they seem to fear her, how they hesitate half a second too long. One of them falls, folding in on itself as it disappears in a plume of deep black smoke. She almost squeals in delight but another approaches, gun drawn, and her next scream dismantles it. 

A flash of silver is all that can be seen of Kira’s blade as she slices through the chest of a Ghost Rider, using the momentum to collide with another. A whip slices at the skin on Lydia’s arm and as she draws her breath to scream, the Rider disappears. Through the smoke, Lydia sees the kitsune wink, before thrusting her sword behind her to take down another.

It’s a battle hard fought, both their bodies tainted with blood. Many of the wounds will scar, but as Lydia channels the last of the Nemeton’s power into a final scream, killing the last remaining Ghost Rider, she knows they are scars to be proud of. They are the marks from the time she saved her family.

“Oh my God.” Kira is breathing heavily, falling to her knees as she looks around the clearing. “Is that it? Did we win? I can’t believe... We actually won, right?”

Lydia holds a hand out to her friend. “And here I thought you had faith in us all along.”

Kira laughs, accepting the help to rise back to her feet. “There was a 50/50 chance of this working. Probably significantly less but you’re the math genius here, not me.” 

Lydia pulls her into a hug, happy tears creating tracks through the dirt and blood on her cheek. “We defeated a force that has been unstoppable for longer than we will ever probably know. I think that makes us certified badasses.”

Separating a few inches, Kira picks up her sword and clicks it into place around her waist. “Come on, there’s still a whole town left to rescue.”

* * *

 

Their plan had been perfection, but it didn’t take into account one thing.

“Do you hear that?” Kira asks, head tilting towards the direction of the wind. “I thought I heard…”

They continue to hike back to the edge of the reserve, Kira’s steps picking up and dragging Lydia by the hand. She’s still confused but she allows herself to be led, until they tumble out of the tree line, directly into -

“What the…” Crowded in the middle of the road is a cluster of people, all looking dazed and disorientated, hugging and crying and taking in the environment. Lydia turns to Kira, excitement raising the pitch of her voice.

“You don’t think…”

“Maybe when we defeated -”

“Everyone was returned?”

Lydia breaks into a run towards her car, Kira hot on her heels. “We have to get to the school!”

* * *

 

Lydia isn’t entirely sure how they survived the drive there, but they make it to the school in a time that would put the Sheriff’s department to shame.

She leaves the engine running, is already tumbling out of the car before it comes to a full stop. There are people scattered everywhere, but all she cares about is one.

“Stiles?” she yells, pushing through the confused students and faculty that litter the lot. Every direction is more people, but not who she needs so desperately. “Stiles! Where are you?”

Something inexplicable happens, a  _ whoosh  _ in the pit of her stomach that makes her feel dizzy and in that moment, she knows. She  _ feels _ . Instinct forces her through a crowd until there, scrambling towards her too, is Stiles. He looks exactly as she remembers from all those months ago, like a second has passed for him while she’s waited nearly half a year. A sob rips from her throat and she rushes the two dozen steps left on shaky legs, collapsing into him. Stiles catches her because of course he does, when has he not, and they cry into each other's shoulders, fingers digging in so tight she knows they’ll both bruise. His scent overwhelms her and the feel of his skin on hers is euphoric. He’s breathing her in and stroking her hair and and just when she thought it couldn’t get any better, she hears his voice.

“Oh my god, Lydia, shit, I can't believe you're here, you saved us, oh my god-” He draws back just enough to get a good look at her face, the delight in his expression instantly replaced with concern as he cups her cheeks. “What happened? Are you okay? Did they hurt you? I swear to God I’ll kill them, I’ll kill them all.”

“Stiles, I-” His hands and eyes are sweeping her body, panic spreading as his fingers come back with blood on them.

“Lydia what is - why are you still bleeding? Where are you hurt? What happ -”

“I'm fine, Stiles, please stop -”

“Oh my god Lydia, I leave you for like, five minutes and you get -”

“It was five months, actually, but -”

“Everyone is back right? We’ll find Melissa, or Deaton, get you all patched up -”

“I love you too,” she breathes, nails scraping his scalp as she tries to stop his blabbering.

“You’ll probably need some - wait what did you say?” The most adorable look of confusion flickers across his face as he plays back her words in his head.

“I said I… I love you too.” Lydia gives him a watery smile, one that hasn’t budged since she first laid eyes on him, and she sees the moment her words click into place inside his brain. Muscles easing, Stiles chuckles and strokes a finger across her cheek. 

“I know.”

“You… You know?” Lydia flushes, looking up into his eyes and seeing the adoration that they have always held when he looks at her. 

He shrugs one shoulder, his boyish grin making her heart melt. “Call it intuition.” His hand has slipped under her blood-stained shirt, palm cool against the bare skin of her lower back. “One day we were walking to class and - and you laughed at this horrific joke I made - truly, horribly bad, even I didn’t find it funny - but you… You laughed. And I just knew.”

Lydia presses herself closer. She wonders if it's possible to remove all space between them, to have their very atoms be forced to cling to one another. She never wants to leave his atmosphere again. “Stiles, just shut up and kiss me already.”

* * *

 

Many hours later - after tearful reunions and the mobilising of the Sheriff’s department to make sure everyone is returned home safely; after Lydia and Kira receive stitches and are wrapped in bandages - the pack are all sat together in the Martin’s living room. The parents are in the kitchen, the quiet hustle and bustle of food preparation - Lydia had managed to create quite the stock in her freezer while she was alone - interrupted by their exhausted chatter. Lydia is being held securely in Stiles’s arms, his fingers stroking her bruised knuckles as he laughs at something Scott says. Too content to take part in the conversation, Lydia looks around at her pack. Kira is asleep, her head in Scott’s lap as he runs his fingers through her matted hair. She has yet to see the pair stop touching, the beam of Scott’s smile at having her back, even if just for a while, enough to light up the room. Lydia and Stiles had found them wrapped around each other after everyone was returned, Scott pressing tender kisses to every inch of her face that wasn’t injured. 

The youngest of the pack are huddled on the floor, Hayden tight against Liam’s side, Mason’s arm looped around his best friend’s shoulders. Corey has his eyes closed, cheek pressed against Mason’s arm. There's a tenderness in his expression that reminds her to make sure he knows he has a family now.

Malia sits at Stiles’s feet, hand wrapped around his ankle. Every so often, Stiles will subconsciously reach down and touch her neck, a silent reminder that he is here, and each time makes the werecoyote relax a little more into the sofa.

And finally, there in the corner, wiping at tears as she grins, is Allison Argent. Lydia watches her, brows furrowed, until the brunette locks eyes with her and blows her a kiss.

‘Thank you,’ Lydia mouths to her, two words that can’t possibly summarise everything she wants to say to her, but she gets the impression that Allison knows it all anyway. Allison laughs, the sound crystal clear despite the hum of conversation in the room, and when Lydia next blinks, her best friend is gone.

* * *

 

There’s a gentle, continuous tapping echoing around the room when her eyes flutter open a week later. The room is dark, a single source of light coming from the foot of the bed that she knows is her laptop. Stretching out her limbs, Lydia rolls over and hugs the blankets close to her chest with one arm, the other propping up her head. A sleepy smile creeps across her face when she sees Stiles pulling a bitter face at the screen.

“I thought we agreed no supernatural after bedtime.”

Stiles doesn’t appear to hear her, but responds after a moment. “Then it’s a… Good thing I haven’t gone to bed yet.”

Lydia huffs. “You were in bed when I went to sleep.”

“And that was  _ your  _ bedtime. Not mine.”

Rolling her eyes, Lydia slips out of the bed and slides her hands over his shoulders, down his chest. She lets her lips graze his cheek, smirking when his steady typing rhythm falters for two seconds. “What are you even doing?”

Stiles leans back into her, his thumb tracing the skin of her wrist. “I’m trying to… I want to try to - to write..." He grunts, shifting in his seat. "Lyds, you forgot me. All of you. I wasn’t here anymore and I… This could all happen again - I could - What if one day I look at you, or my dad, or Scott and -” Something wet hits her thumb and she grimaces, spinning his chair until there’s room for her to kneel in front of him, grasping his hands between hers.

“I’m not gonna let that happen,” she whispers, placing a delicate kiss against his knuckles. “You’re never gonna forget us, I promise. I know your mom’s illness scares you, and I can only imagine how… how awful it was to watch and not be able to do a single thing about it. But that’s not the case here, Stiles. I’ll do whatever it takes, whatever needs to be done, whether we ask Scott to give you the bite, or we… I don’t know, witches are probably a thing right?” She finally catches his eyes and he chuckles despite the tears. “I’m not gonna let you disappear. No matter what it takes, you will be okay.”

Stiles tugs her up and pulls her into his lap, one hand curling around her thigh while the other smoothes over the pulse point on her neck. Leaning forward, Lydia presses a lingering kiss to his lips, her nose skimming his. When she opens her eyes again, she holds his face until she knows she has his complete attention.

“I’m not gonna lose you again,” she says, voice breaking with the force of her sincerity.

A wealth of emotion flickers across his gaze, so quickly she can barely identify them, until he darts forward and kisses her with everything he has, hair tangled around his fingers, blunt nails scratching her scalp. She whimpers with the force of it, letting him control the pace until he breaks away, chest heaving, eyes glazed over. He combs her curls back into place, ghosting his thumbs across her cheeks, wet from both their tears. 

“I love you,” he exhales, foreheads pressed together. “I lo- I love you.”

“I love you too.” Lydia smiles, tracing the neckline of his shirt. “Now can we please go back to bed?”

Stiles has never really been able to say no to her, so he lets her close the laptop and lead him to the bed. Pulling back the sheets, she waits for him to settle before walking to the other side and shuffling in. Stiles sighs, eyes flickering around the ceiling until she lifts her arm and clears her throat to get his attention. He slides closer, letting her shoulder be his pillow, arm curling around her waist. The next sigh is one of comfort, and she drops her lips to his forehead, fingertips carding through his hair until eventually his breathing evens out, his muscles ease their twitching, and she finally lets sleep consume her too.


End file.
